Sunday, 18 March 2012

She...

She gave birth to me even though the doctors told her she shouldn't try.

She blames me for the white hair, the wobbly bits, the wrinkly bits, the sleepless nights, and the phone calls where she says: 'You've done WHAT?'

She is unable to look at my house without wanting to clean it.

She taught me how to bake really good cakes, although none of them are as good as the chocolate one she still makes me on my birthday.

She failed to teach me how to make Yorkshire puddings that are light and fluffy like hers, probably because she wants to hold something in reserve to impress future sons-in-law and the grandchildren which she very sensibly doesn't mention not having.

She always smells nice.

She doesn't get angry often but when she does she can make the ambient temperature of a room drop to -20. She can Give You A Look down the telephone.

She put Germolene on my cuts, ran my burns under cold water, cleaned food off my face with the dishcloth, told me to keep away from the edge and wiped away all my tears.

She made me stay at the table until I had hidden all my peas under the mash where I thought she'd never find them.

She used to stroke my cheek while I fell asleep. I miss this.

She will insist on kissing the back of my neck if she sees it, but I don't let her see it because her kissing it freaks me out.

She is a war baby with roughly the same grip on her finances as an alcoholic on a bottle of gin but still lends me money whenever I need it.

She is the person who won't talk to me if I ring when Coronation Street's on, but will call me for a natter and be hurt if I tell her I'm too busy to talk.

She puts things away in my kitchen in the places where they live in her kitchen.

She hoards things in jars. Posh moisturiser, mint sauce, Vicks Vaporub, hotel shampoo, Branston pickle, liniment - they are kept until they solidify, ferment, or kill someone who tries them without checking the use-by date.

She sometimes giggles so hard that she cries and her face goes as red as a tomato.

She's really funny when she's drunk.

She taught me to read before I went to school and is good at doing plaits.

She has given me her bunions.

She is the person I spent most of my youth trying not to be, but have turned into anyway.

She is never going to not love me, but doesn't get told often enough that I feel the same way about her.

She is going to get a nice dinner cooked for her today and even though I'll clean up afterwards I know she'll do it again properly after I've gone.